Before the Dying of the Light
by Lil black dog
Summary: What made a ten-year-old Spock flee his home three days ago, and what punishment will his parents mete out upon his return? An expansion of my chapter from "Moments" entitled "Downtime." Written for the "Dying of the Light" challenge at Ad Astra. As promised, chapters for young Kirk and young McCoy are now up.
1. Spock - age ten

A/N: What made a ten-year-old Spock flee his home three days ago, and what punishment will his parents mete out upon his return? An expansion of my chapter from "Moments" entitled "Downtime." Written for the "Dying of the Light" challenge at Ad Astra.

I have two additional chapters in mind—one for a young Kirk and another for a young McCoy. One will be humorous and the other much darker than this piece. As to whether or not anything will come of those ideas—that remains to be seen. ;-) As the events in those chapters will be separate from and have no bearing on this chapter, I will mark the piece as complete. Since all three will either begin or end with the challenge sentence, I'll fold them into one story rather than doing three separate pieces.

**Before the Dying of the Light**

**Spock**

He would need to return home before the dying of the light. He owed his mother as much. He had snuck out of his home in the late hours of the evening three days ago unbeknownst to his parents. His father was probably worried in his own logical, non-emotional way, but he knew his mother would be positively frantic that her only son, a child of but ten years of age, had been absent for that length of time without so much as a hand-scribbled note or video recording as to where he had gone, or an indication as to whether or not he had been abducted.

The latter scenario was highly unlikely; crime had virtually disappeared on his planet once its inhabitants adopted the tenets of Surak two millennia ago, but as the son of Vulcan's senior diplomat to the Federation and his planet's ambassador to Earth, his father had surely made enemies over the years, and not all races in the galaxy were dedicated to the practice of non-violence. Although only a remote possibility, it was conceivable that one of them had had a hand in his disappearance. At least he was certain that must be one of the angles his parents were pursuing; in fact, he believed wholeheartedly that his mother would have insisted on it. As much as he was enjoying this well-needed bit of solitude, this, among other factors, was the motivation behind his decision to return much earlier than the seven to eight days he had planned to be gone.

Spock sighed as he reflected on the event that had driven him to this remote cave he had discovered in the foothills of the L'langon Mountains during his kahs-wan ordeal:

It had been three years since he had made the decision that had set his feet on the course his life would take. A decision he still stood behind he reminded himself, but one that was proving much more difficult than he had initially anticipated.

Not so much on his end—having made the choice to live his life as a Vulcan he was finding the mental techniques of meditation and mastery of emotions easier to assimilate and utilize now, once his focus had been given a clear, distinct direction.

The difficulty did not stem from within, but without. Despite performing at levels—both academically and mentally—which were consistent with or even surpassed those of his peers, there were many who were still unable to see beyond the conspicuousness of his biology; those who were able to focus only on the fact that he was 'different.'

Unfortunately, he felt the sting of classification even within his own family unit. Despite his best efforts, and theirs as well, each parent still defined him by the traits of the other. It appeared to be all they could see in him. His father tended to be more vocal, demanding stricter mental discipline or tighter behavioral control as a way to purge what he considered to be undesirable qualities. With his father there was no gray area; Spock knew exactly what was expected of him.

Undeniably, it was his mother's actions he found the most confusing. She rarely, if ever, had anything negative to say, at least in his presence, but the despair visible in her eyes at times wounded him to the very depths of his soul, the feeling complicated by the fact that he didn't understand the nature of her pain. Unlike his father, for the longest time with her he was unsure if it was disappointment with him or an overwhelming, compassionate anguish meant to be sympathetic to his unique situation.

Three days ago, he had unwittingly been made to understand. Hoping to catch a glimpse of a small, inconsequential comet scheduled to pass through the heavens that night, he had slipped quietly out of bed and made his way outside to his mother's terraced garden—it afforded a much less restricted view of the night sky than the one available from his bedroom window. It was on the return trip, an hour and a half later, that he had heard muffled voices coming from behind the door to his father's study.

"He has made tremendous mental progress over the last few years, but he still needs to work on physical discipline. His face still often betrays the thoughts and emotions residing behind it," his father announced, the banality of his delivery completely incongruous with the content of the statement.

"As does yours on occasion," his mother retorted hotly. "He's not an automaton, Sarek, nor should you want him to be. It's not like he laughs, or smiles, or says or does things that are disrespectful or contradictory to the life he has chosen. He is the epitome of a dutiful Vulcan son.

"And for anyone who doesn't know of his parentage, he presents a totally Vulcan face to the outside world. Most people are shocked to learn of his mixed heritage. And you know, after thirteen years of living on this planet, I can often read the thoughts and emotions of my co-workers in their eyes or on their faces, not to mention yours," his mother quipped.

"I am aware of that, my wife, but as I have indicated to Spock, there are those who will judge him solely by his hybrid nature. In many ways, Spock will need to show himself to be superior to his peers if he wishes to be held above reproach."

"I don't understand why our son has to be held to a higher standard than those around him..." his mother had responded, her tone fueled by bitterness and exasperation.

Most assuredly, the conversation had continued, but he had not paused outside the door, unwilling to actively participate in the act of espionage. Regrettably, he had heard more than enough in passing, the callous remarks not meant for wider dissemination producing feelings of remorse and inadequacy within him. It seemed no matter how he conducted himself he was unable to please his parents.

These voices and images faded into the background as he basked in the serenity of solitude. While at home, trying desperately to fit into a world not made for him, he found himself pulled in numerous, conflicting directions; here there was only tranquility, and harmony, and a refreshing lack of scrutiny. The decision to flee had apparently been correct, at least for him. The punishment his parents would mete out once he returned home remained to be seen, but at this juncture, that was secondary to his peace of mind.

Over the last three days he had meditated long and hard on what he had overheard in an effort to find a solution which would appease everyone. Sadly, the answer had not been forthcoming, but during his time here alone in the desert he had found it strangely liberating to be away from it all; to be far removed from the stress and pressures of what had become his everyday life. He had reveled in the freedom, the independence, the respite, however brief, from constantly being under a microscope. This represented the first time in his young life he had been free to simply _be_ without outside influences shaping his future path and squelching his unique personality.

While he may not have discovered the key to conducting himself in a manner that would appease everyone who held a position of importance in his life, he had sorted out what he needed to do for his own sanity and survival.

Once he had mastered self-control, was no longer a slave to physical or emotional outbursts, the taunts of his peers had died away. Now they mostly left him to his own devices, although they were still quite careful to maintain their distance and exclude him from the typical personal connections experienced by the majority of beings throughout the galaxy: his classmates didn't invite or encourage him to participate in various extra-curricular clubs, sports or other social activities.

He accepted this willingly, and with a modicum of relief, for aside from the brief time his older brother had spent living with the family, he had not known the companionship of others his own age; had never experienced what it meant to 'belong' to a specific group. He found that it was easier being on his own—if there were no expectations save his own to live up to, then it would not be possible to fail miserably in the eyes of others.

He had grown complacent and comfortable with his place in Vulcan society, and had falsely believed that his parents had left his youthful indiscretions of the past behind them as well. The conversation he had unwittingly overheard had proven otherwise. Initially he had fled hoping to somehow remedy his parents' views of him, but over the past three days had come to the realization that he must proceed in the manner best suited to help him survive on a world ill-equipped to deal with one such as he. If he were true to himself, ultimately others would come to respect him for it, his parents included.

Armed with that knowledge he gathered up the few items he had brought with him and set off resolutely for home as the sun began its journey toward the horizon. He would arrive shortly before darkness fell and he steeled himself for the punishment that was certain to follow, for he had decided with an unflinching tenacity that he would not disclose that which had ultimately driven him from his home. He knew that running from his problems would be viewed as emotional weakness on his part by his father, and that knowledge of what had compelled him to escape the disharmonious atmosphere pervading not just his home, but his life in general, would only add to the sorrow and desperation he saw in his mother's eyes. As he trudged through the sandy soil, the red dust swirling about his feet, he could not help the feeling that, as the light in the heavens died, so his several days of freedom would be forever extinguished as well. The breath of fresh, unfettered air he had experienced during this short-lived hiatus from reality would once again become stifling and constricting. Like a condemned man walking that last mile to his own execution, so he would return to his previous life—that of a powerless prisoner of fate, subject to unmitigated, inflexible circumstances that were beyond his ability to control.


	2. Kirk - age ten

**Kirk—age ten**

"I'll get you back, Sam, if it's the last thing I do!" he shouted hotly at his older brother who was running backward leisurely before him, facing him, taunting him, always managing to stay just out of reach.

"You'll have to catch me first, Squirt, and we both know that's something you can't do." Turning and putting on a burst of speed the barefoot, older Kirk disappeared into the field of nearly-grown corn before him, the whisper-thin, ramrod-straight stalks parting like the Red Sea before him and closing around him just as swiftly with a rustling swish and a puff of dust.

Jimmy stopped, brushing sweat and a stubborn lock of hair from his eyes. Sam could be anywhere now—darting haphazardly through the maze of seven-foot-tall vegetation, not following the plowed furrows in which they were planted, he could have set off in any number of directions. All the older boy had to do was slow down and creep silently through the wall of foliage, careful not to disturb them and give away his position.

_I'll never catch him now,_ Jimmy lamented silently_, but that doesn't mean I can't get him back._ He returned to the house and plopped down on the back porch, the hazel eyes now a livid green as unmitigated anger swirled in them. It would be dark within the hour. He began plotting his revenge.

This had all started over dessert, prepared especially for them by their mom's friend Minnie. Winona had been at her house all day, the two making jam from the wild raspberries and blackberries the boys had picked for her earlier in the week. Their mom had stopped home an hour ago, staying just long enough to drop off two of Minnie's famous chocolate raspberry single-serving pies before she was off again, running errands that would keep her occupied until well after dark.

Folks in these parts swore it was the best pie in all of Washington County, if not in the entire state of Iowa. Her decadent concoction had actually won top honors at the Iowa State Fair three years running. Winona's boys were definitely of the latter mindset. While their mother was an excellent cook, Minnie's pie was by far their favorite, and they had begged their mom to ask Minnie to make some using the fresh berries they had picked.

With George senior currently in the midst of a six-month deployment as a security officer in Starfleet (Sam's given name was George Samuel Kirk, after his father), the boys—aged ten and fourteen—were on their own for the remainder of the day. Their mother had left them a cold dinner of fried chicken, potato salad and fresh cucumber and tomato salad in the fridge, as well as strict instructions that all of their chores were to be finished before she got home. This included feeding the horses, dogs, and cats in the barn—Jimmy's job, and mucking out the stalls, which fell under Sam's purview.

Sam had gobbled down his own pie after dinner, but Jimmy had opted to save his for later. It was his habit to lie beneath the stars well into the night during the summer months, and to his mind the pie would make an excellent addition to that ritual.

Jimmy had started his chores immediately after dinner, while Sam was supposedly going to watch his favorite vid program on the holoviewer before completing his own. Jimmy had waltzed through the door in the kitchen when finished, only to find Sam cramming the last remnants of Jimmy's pie into his mouth. A scuffle had ensued, Sam bolting for the front door, leaping over the porch railing and making a beeline for the cornfield, his little brother spitting mad and hot on his tail.

Sitting dejectedly on the back porch, Jimmy's eyes came to rest on Sam's barn boots, perched neatly on the bottom step. Instantly a plan began to take shape. He raced into the house, just in case Sam was watching him, and ran to a window in the dining room which couldn't be seen from the cornfield. Throwing it open he carefully removed the screen and dropped into the overgrown bush below. Using the bushes for cover he squirmed through the rich Iowa soil, hugging the side of the house until he reached the back corner of the front porch, which ran the entire length of that side. The spacious structure was three feet or so above the ground, ten feet deep and fifty feet long. In order to keep larger wildlife from nesting underneath, it was covered on all sides by a tightly-spaced wooden latticework which bridged the distance from the bottom of the deck to the ground. Not only did it serve to keep bigger critters out, it would also prevent anyone outside from seeing what was going on within. It was a tried and true hiding place—one Jimmy used often when he needed a bit of breathing room.

While concealing himself under there last week, Jimmy had discovered just the thing he would need to get Sam back. Tugging on a loose end of latticework, he was able to shimmy through the small gap it created. He sat close to the entrance for a few minutes, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark space within. Once he could see reasonably well in the dim light he crawled to the center and stuffed his pockets with those things he would need to make Sam pay for his unscrupulous act.

He retreated, making his way to the back porch, once again using the bushes alongside the house as cover. In a few minutes the deed was done. Sam hated snakes more than anything, and now one waited for him inside each of his Wellington's. The boots were knee-high, the rubber interior slick and unscalable. The non-poisonous baby garter snakes wouldn't be able to climb out and their fangs were so small they could do little damage, but they were sure to scare the bejesus out of the older Kirk. Jimmy wriggled back around to the dining room window, hoisted himself in and ran to the kitchen window to wait and watch. It was almost dark. Sam would have to return soon to do his chores, and would need his boots to keep the manure off his bare feet.

Jimmy smiled to himself. His revenge would be sweet, and he wouldn't have to wait until his dying breath to see it realized, just until the dying of the light.


	3. McCoy - age eight

**McCoy—age eight**

He wriggled out of the other's grasp, holding his breath as he swam several meters away. Breaking the surface, he gulped in a lungful of air and shook the water from his hair. Laughter drew his attention, as did a deluge of salt water, splashed playfully in his direction.

He returned the favor in kind, but the golden head of his best friend disappeared below the surf, fingers closing a few seconds later around his ankle. Lenny stepped backward, good-naturedly wrenching his leg from the other's hand, and Forrest surfaced, coming to stand close in front of him.

Lenny had been on vacation at the Georgia coast for two days with his best friend's family. Mister Tatum had become a surrogate father to him over the last four months as his own father had become more and more absorbed in his career as a surgeon at a prominent hospital in Atlanta.

The boys had been entertaining themselves for several hours now, alternating between building sandcastles and digging trenches at the water's edge, raiding the cooler of food Forrest's mom had brought with her, and cavorting in the surf, paddling around and bodysurfing on the moderately-sized ocean swells.

It was a crystal clear day, the cloudless blue sky dropping down to meet the deeper blue calm of the placid waters of the Atlantic at the horizon. As usual, a gentle sea breeze was blowing, seagulls gliding effortlessly along on the warm updrafts, eyes peeled for a tasty morsel on the sand or among the waves. Sandpipers darted up and down the water's edge with each crest and retreat of the surf, pecking at the tiny edible marine life left in their wake, while a pod of dolphins swam by at least fifty meters from the shore, scores of tiny fish intermittently breaching the water before them as the marine mammals did their best to corral their meal.

Forrest's parents were ten meters or so up the sandy shore, his mother ensconced under an umbrella, nose buried in a portable reader, Mister Tatum dozing on his back on a lounge chair.

The throng of vacationers had thinned out considerably, for it was now on the backside of evening, only a few hours of daylight remaining.

Forrest looped a conspiratorial arm about Lenny's shoulders. "Find anything?" the older boy asked his younger friend. Armed with goggles and snorkels, the two had been busy at their latest task, diving in the shallows for the last half an hour, rakes in hand, scraping the bottom and hoping to uncover 'pirate gold.' During the 1700's, Georgia's barrier islands had been a mecca for maritime criminals, Blackbeard among the most notorious. Throughout the ensuing centuries both amateur and professional treasure hunters had combed the beaches and excavated offshore sandbars and shipping lanes hoping to strike it rich, but Forrest had reasoned that no one had explored the waters so close to shore. He had done his best to convince Lenny that with a little perseverance and elbow grease, they could definitely unearth at least a few pieces of eight.

"Nuthin' but empty shells and a few clams," Lenny answered dejectedly, shifting his small rake to his other hand.

"Me, either," Forrest conceded. "Maybe we're a little too close to shore. Let's move out a little farther."

Lenny glanced back at the safety of the beach before gazing once again at the expanse of ocean before him. At eight years old he was a full head shorter and fifteen pounds lighter than his nine-year-old companion, and not nearly as proficient a swimmer. Right now he was tired and chilled to the bone, not even the prospect of pirate loot able to convince him to remain in the water, let alone wander farther away from shore. "Nah. I'm done for a while," he said, lips blue, teeth chattering slightly. "I'm cold and thirsty. I'm gonna go dry off." Prying his goggles from his face he started to move toward the welcoming warmth of the dry sand.

"Chicken," Forrest teased, a condescending grin marring the boyish features, hands tucked into his armpits as he flapped imaginary wings. "Y'know, if I find anything I'm not sharing it," he added as an afterthought.

"I'm NOT chicken," Lenny insisted forcefully, turning to face his friend once again, "just cold is all. I just need to go and warm up for a few minutes and then I'll be back."

"Suit yourself," Forrest said, diving below the waves once again.

Lenny splashed through the shallow water, ran up the slight incline and dropped to his knees before the small patch of real estate the Tatums had staked out, swinging his towel around his back and hugging it close. Mrs. Tatum glanced up from her book. "Where's Forrest?" she asked, eyes roaming over the waves.

"He wanted to stay in a little longer, but I was cold," Lenny answered honestly.

She visibly relaxed as her eyes settled on her tow-headed son as he popped up from the surf, now chest-deep in the indigo water. "Are you hungry, dear?" she began as she shifted her focus to Lenny once again. She reached for the cooler, but an ear-splitting scream pierced the subdued cacophony of the early evening.

"Help me!"

Lenny turned in time to see a wave pummel his friend, the youngster paddling madly against the current that was drawing him ever farther from the shore. Mister Tatum was on his feet in an instant, running for the water's edge and diving head-first into the surf. A big man and accomplished swimmer, he struck out determinedly for his son, his clean, long strokes propelling him through the water as effortlessly as a torpedo, but despite his speed and skill the gap between the two continued to widen.

Lenny raced for the water's edge as well, Mrs. Tatum matching him stride for stride. The two stopped in the ankle-deep water. Lenny felt the sand being sucked out from underneath his feet as a spent wave rushed past, struggling to return to the depths from whence it came.

A flurry of activity began around them as other beachgoers realized the gravity of the situation. Lenny could hear someone shouting for assistance in the background but he was unable to tear his eyes away from his friend's form as it grew ever smaller.

Mrs. Tatum's high-pitched screams turned into inconsolable sobs as Forrest finally disappeared below the waves. Mr. Tatum dove under the surf as he reached Forrest's last location. He surfaced briefly several times, each time only long enough to draw in a lungful of air before plunging below the waves once again, but finally he too remained under the incongruously calm, blue water.

In the meantime several lifeguards has wrestled an inflatable craft to the water's edge and were now on their way to the spot where the two had disappeared, fighting against the incoming waves which were determined to keep the would-be rescuers from reaching their goal. They were on the scene within minutes, but repeated dives by two of them yielded neither swimmer.

Finally, a motorized hovercraft was towed onto the beach, followed by a swarm of rescue and medical personnel. As they worked to launch the vessel, Mrs. Tatum ran toward it and demanded to be allowed to go with them, but was gently refused. "If we take you out with us, when we find them and get them aboard we'll have exceeded the occupancy limit for the boat. You wouldn't want to jeopardize their lives further, right ma'am? Besides, you need to stay here and take care of your other son." The rescuer's voice softened. "We'll do everything we can, I promise you, ma'am." And with a gentle touch to her arm, the young man turned and jumped into the boat as it was freed from its trailer and splashed into the shallow water.

As the emergency vessel began making its way through the surf to the scene beyond, Lenny slipped his small hand into Mrs. Tatum's. She glanced down at him, tears still moist on her cheeks. It had been close to fifteen minutes since her world had shattered. It hadn't occurred to Lenny that she had wanted to be taken to the rescue site without him. _They didn't want us to go, cuz they don't want us to see them when they find them._ Lenny understood this instantly, but had no outlet for his grim realization, or any idea how to comfort the woman beside him who had just lost everything. He simply squeezed her hand. She returned the pressure, the 'thank you' that couldn't pass her lips visible in her eyes.

They stood like that, hand in hand in the shallows, watching the operation for over an hour. During this time several people had come up to them and offered to help. "Here, come sit with us," one woman had said, draping blankets about their shoulders. "We'll stay with you until they find them," she added, trying to gently steer them away from the water's edge. Naturally Mrs. Tatum had refused. "At least let us take your boy home, then. He shouldn't be here when…when…" But Lenny had tightened his grip on her hand and dug in his heels, unable to verbally express his desire not to leave her here to face this alone. She'd understood the tacit request. "Thank you, but we're fine," was the only reply she could manage, her eyes never leaving the water.

As twilight approached, Lenny looped his arm around Mrs. Tatum's waist and buried his head in her side. She returned the gesture, drawing him close and leaning her cheek against the top of his head. He found his desperate hope that the two would somehow be found at all, let alone alive, was swiftly dying along with the light from the sinking sun.


End file.
